


grow me a vineyard

by HouserOfStories



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Genre: Abandonment, And she does!, Ariadne could do so much better than Theseus, F/F, F/M, Mythology - Freeform, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:20:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28739394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HouserOfStories/pseuds/HouserOfStories
Summary: The sands of Naxos are soft, and the vineyards are always bountiful. She has heard that Dionysus looks over the vineyards and their harvest, and his temple is on the island, surrounded by lush forest and made out of marble and stone.Ariadne knows this, and does not care.
Relationships: Ariadne/Dionysus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Ariadne/Original Female Character(s) (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Ariadne/Theseus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	grow me a vineyard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bisexualoftheblade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualoftheblade/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Cai! I heard you liked this particular myth, so here’s a little retelling courtesy of yours truly.

The sands of Naxos are soft, and the vineyards are always bountiful. Ariadne knows this, has heard of its beauty before — the birthplace of the King of the Gods could not be anything but. She has heard that Dionysus looks over the vineyards and their harvest. Somewhere on the island, there’s his temple, surrounded by lush forest and made out of marble and stone. Ariadne knows this, and does not care.

“Theseus!  _ Theseus!”  _ The ocean lazily laps against the shore. If she looked, she would see blues and greens and every other colour amidst a smattering of precious shells. Instead, her gaze is fixed upon the ship gently retreating away from the island. Away from her. It isn’t so far gone that she can’t see the sailors; the one that saved her the last pieces of fruit without her having to ask, and the one that pointed out the stars when she stepped onto the deck at night. “Come  _ back!”  _ Theseus doesn’t even look at her. Not even for one final glance. “You can’t leave me here!”

But he does. The waves come no higher than her thighs, the surface warmed by the sun but the water itself cold against her skin. Ariadne yells herself hoarse until the boat has disappeared below the horizon. She does not cry. She screams, and curses, and regrets ever helping him out of the Labyrinth, but she does not cry.

Ariadne does not mourn lost love. Instead, she is angry.

A part of her knows they’ll forget this. Theseus will go down as a hero for slaying the Minotaur and all she will be is an offhand mention in the history books. This does not sadden her; it only stokes her rage.

On Naxos, there are forests and vineyards and soft golden sands. Then, there is a man. His face is too perfect, his eyes too bright and not a single strand of hair is out of place. Perhaps he is a god. 

Across the beach, on the path through the trees to the city, there is a woman. She watches carefully, a basket held tightly against her chest. She knows what he is, knows that he saw the offering she made for a good harvest. Knows that he does not see her, which is exactly how she wants it to be, thank you very much. Parts of her braids have pulled loose so her face is framed in haphazard wisps.

The maybe-god wants her. Trick her once, shame on him. Trick her twice? Shame on her. Ariadne will not be a fool again. 

She tells him this. The maybe-god ( _ Dionysus,  _ the little voice in her that is scared instead of angry says) laughs. And then, he is gone, but she is not alone anymore.

Above her, the sun burns bright and merry. Ariadne is offered food and shelter, and she is given a bath and company and someone that could be a home. Because the island is only the place she was betrayed and cast aside like a broken toy, and is not her home.

(Yet.)

Dionysus comes again, with a perfect smile and an offer she shouldn’t be able to refuse. It’s dawn, and the sun is crawling above the horizon that she once screamed at until she couldn’t anymore. “You could go, if you wanted to,” the woman with the basket and a face framed in wisps says.

“I couldn’t leave you,” Ariadne replies, and thinks she means it.

Her response is a thoughtful hum. Now, they are sitting on a bed, and careful hands comb through her hair, “You could. We will be here if you go, and we will be here if you don’t.”

“Will you?”

“We don’t mind waiting.” 

Ariadne’s goodbye is murmured softly against her lips. The light she sees from the window as she runs towards the forest stays on for a long, long time.

In the darkness, there is nothing but the shapes of branches that brush past her and do not cut. As the sun climbs higher, shafts of light cut across the path and between the trees. If she looked — and this time she does — there are greens and browns and every shade of gold in between. Still, she runs. Underneath her feet, the path shifts between stones and dust and mud. And then in front of her, there is a man. He has eyes the colour of vineyard leaves, and a smile more genuine than Theseus’ ever was. Dionysus asks a third time.

The sands of Naxos were soft beneath her feet, and the ocean cool against her skin. Its waters are blue and green and every other colour imaginable. Ariadne knows this, and does not care. She remembers undone braids and someone that could be a home, a goodbye that was pressed between her lips and travelled down her throat like wine. Soft yellow candlelight spilling out of a window. A maybe-god with a perfect face and perfect hair and perfect eyes. 

She takes Dionysus' hand.

(The history books will have to try harder if they want to forget her.)

**Author's Note:**

> come say hello on tumblr at [@houser-of-stories!](https://houser-of-stories.tumblr.com/)


End file.
